


Fever and Fervor

by jellyjog



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Sickfic, kind of not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 04:13:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14072661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyjog/pseuds/jellyjog
Summary: When Keith has to miss an important meeting because he's not feeling well, Shiro goes to check on him.From the following prompt from ilovelocust on tumblr: "How about Keith faking ill to get out a boring diplomatic meeting he was only required to attend for formality reasons, and Shiro staying behind to look after him."





	Fever and Fervor

“Keith, at least let me take your temperature.” Shiro let his thumb and forefinger pinch his eyebrows as he urged himself not snap at his sick teammate. “Allura and Coran mean well but we can never be too careful when it comes to foreign illnesses. They may have different effects on humans.”

“I’m not human, so no.” Keith remained rooted in place, and Shiro knew the door would be sliding shut in his face if it wasn’t for his strategically placed foot. “It’s a Galra illness, and I’m Galra. Allura and Coran both said I just need to rest, and that’s what I’d be doing if you weren’t hovering at my door.”

“Keith.” Shiro gave him a withering look, his hands out in front of him in a ‘help me out here’ gesture. “Open your door. Go lie down. I’m taking your temperature.” Keith glared.

“Don’t you have a meeting to go to?”

“My team is more important than a meeting.” There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation in his words. Keith stared at him for another couple seconds before sighing and taking a step back. Shiro walked in, setting his first aid kit on the almost empty table to the left of the entrance—next to a half empty box of energy bars and a bent copy of The Art of War. A moment passed, and Keith’s jacket and belt appeared draped over the chair to his right, making Shiro blush at the realization that Keith probably needed to change. He focused his attention on finding a thermometer and pointedly ignored the sound of shifting fabric behind him.

“Hey Shiro?” Shiro turned as Keith addressed him, feeling his blush immediately spread wider. “Could you hand me my sweats? They’re in the dresser behind you.” Shiro turned around immediately, finding the dresser in question and throwing open the top drawer. Inside was an abundance of black t-shirts, which Shiro may have found funny if it he’d had a sense of humor at the moment. He found sweats in the second drawer and took in a deep, highly professional breath. Yes. He was highly professional.

He was highly professional, and in his teammate’s personal quarters. He was pointedly not thinking about the fact that apparently Keith preferred briefs. He would turn around, professionally, and hand Keith his sweats. Professionally.

“Here.” Shiro thrust his arm out, eyes focused somewhere to Keith’s left as the fabric was removed from his hands and Keith put them on in the corner of his eye. “I have to grab the thermometer. Lie down.”

“You’re already holding the thermometer.” Keith’s arms were crossed, but he turned towards his bed anyway.

“Oh.” Deep breaths. Keith gave him a strange look as he pulled back his covers and got into bed.

“Are you sure you’re not the one who’s sick? You look awfully pale.” Keith was sitting up against his pillows, blanket pooling in his lap. Shiro didn’t answer, and Keith lost his patience quickly. “Shiro, just give me the thermometer so I can go to sleep.” Shiro nodded, stepping forward and handing the thermometer over. He sat on the edge of the bed as Keith shook it and slid it into his mouth. An occasional beep came from it, muffled slightly, and Shiro was transfixed by the slow up and down movement as Keith proved unable to hold it still. Shiro’s eyes were drifting down Keith’s jaw to his neck, his collarbones, the abs usually hidden underneath his armor or his signature jacket. He ruminated on some very unprofessional thoughts, and looked back up only when Keith cleared his throat loudly.

“No fever.” He held the thermometer up with one hand and a curious expression. “But you’re looking awfully red. Maybe I’m contagious.”

“Let me check.” Shiro shifted his weight, settling his left hand on Keith’s forehead and his right hand on his other side. He considered moving his hand back into Keith’s hair, tilting his head up so his neck was bared, crushing his own lips onto his teammate’s. He wondered how Keith would react. Would he push back, affronted? Would his eyes go wide? Would he kiss back? And if he did, Shiro wondered if he would be allowed to take control or if it would be more like fighting, both of them trying to outdo the other. More importantly, he wondered how long his hand had been on Keith’s forehead.

Keith was his teammate what was he thinking?

“No fever.” Shiro barely managed to get the words out. “You’re still sick though, I’ll let you get some rest. I have a meeting to go to.” He made to stand up, but Keith grabbed his arm before he got a chance.

“You’re just going to leave a sick teammate by themselves?” Keith squeezed Shiro’s arm, offense leaking into his voice as he urged him closer again.

“You don’t have a fever.” Shiro looked at the door, unsure he had another ounce of willpower left in his body. “Allura and Coran were right. You need to rest.”

“I’m half human, we don’t know how I’ll react to Galran illnesses.” Keith leaned forward into Shiro’s space, begging to be pushed back. “I need someone to keep a close eye on me.”

“You need more than that.” Shiro shot back.

“What else do I need?” Keith tilted his head to one side, eyebrows still knotted together. Shiro didn’t answer, and it wasn’t until Keith opened his mouth to speak again that he moved forward, pressing his lips into Keith’s.

It wasn’t like he thought it would be. Keith’s lips were chapped, and Shiro was bent forward awkwardly—bodies barely touching. He moved his hands onto Keith’s face and let his flesh one drift back into the mess of hair. He could feel the oil and sweat in it, slick, and closed it to keep it from sliding. Hands hesitantly came to rest on Shiro’s shoulders, and lips moved slowly against his own. Shiro wondered if this was Keith’s first kiss. He let his metal hand move down Keith’s side, drifting over muscle and gripping firmly on the joint between his waist and his hipbone. He wondered if his meeting had started, and what Keith was thinking about.

“Is this okay?” He broke the kiss just long enough to ask before dipping back in. Keith nodded and made a small affirmative whine, unable to answer against Shiro’s mouth. Shiro pulled back again.

“I’m your team leader.” Shiro pulled slightly with his flesh hand, angling Keith’s head so their eyes were meeting. “You’re sick. We shouldn’t be doing this.” Keith’s hands ran down his body, circling his belt in stuttered attempts to untuck his shirt.

“I’m not sick.” Shiro could have sworn there was a chuckle in that sentence. “No fever.” There was a hand under Shiro’s shirt, running over the scar on his abdomen.

“Because you’re half Galran.” Shiro bit back, hands gripping tighter.

“Because I lied.” Keith leaned forward, grinning. “I was never sick. I just didn’t want to go to your stupid meeting.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I live for your feedback (especially since this is the first time I've written something so overtly sexual--despite there not being any actual sex) so don't be afraid to leave a comment.
> 
> You can also check out my tumblr if you want, I take suggestions and all that jazz: tumblr.com/blog/all-the-wrong-lines
> 
> Thanks again!


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